Trials and Tribulations Revised
by Blue Moon3
Summary: Following the Dark Lord's demise, Professor Snape finds himself once again on trial before the Wizengamot. With Dumbledore deceased, who will vouch for his alleigance?
1. In The Beginning

_**Disclaimer: **All Harry Potter characters, etc, are the property of J.K. Rowling and Warner Brothers. I make no money by this story. Chapter titles are Bible quotes. Original story is mine and can be read, in its original format, via my user page. _

_**Author's Note**: Although this story is a re-working, it's been entirely re-written to fit a post-HBP universe._

_**In the Beginning**_

Harry grinned across the table at Ron as he started an animated monologue about a prank Fred and George had played on their older brother Percy. He had heard it before, more than once, but it was still funny. Hermione was trying to look cross, but the telltale creases at the corners of her mouth betrayed the smile that was threatening to escape.

The grin subsided to a small, regretful smile. Harry took a moment to look around the Weasleys' large dining table, custom made to fit nine people with space for guests. The scratches in the varnish, the scorch marks and worn-smooth corners telling years' worth of tales about each and every Weasley, honorary or genuine, that had ever sat about it. Harry could see a faded blue spot next to Mr. Weasley's elbow where he and Ron had been pretending to do their Christmas Charms homework. In fact they had been playing Exploding Snap behind their textbooks, and a particularly vivacious win had made Ron jump and spill the bottle of ink beside him. He was a part of this family's history – a part of this family. But this may be the last time he sat at their table.

Ron stopped talking as a large snowy owl dropped lightly onto the table between himself and Harry. Hermione watched as Hedwig landed gracefully on the table and sidled towards her master. "Everything OK, Harry?"

Harry nodded, smiling briefly. He was grateful to see that Hedwig's leg was burdened with a small scroll. He glanced up at Ron, before quickly untying the note and feeding her some scraps of chicken from the remains of his dinner.

The letter was on a thick sheaf of parchment bearing the Hogwarts crest. His eyes traveled quickly over the cursive script once, before he read it aloud to the curious Weasleys.

"_Dear Harry,_

_I am aware of your plans to visit your aunt and uncle, as Albus requested, and that you will probably spend the remainder of the year away from Hogwarts. We will all miss you but, of course, understand the necessity of your actions. I would, however, like to request an audience with you before you begin your journey. Perhaps you could come to the school before term begins. I will be here preparing, whenever is convenient._

_Yours sincerely,_  
_Professor Minerva McGonagall_

_Headmistress_

_Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry_"

"I suppose that's it, then?" Mrs Weasley said, after a long pause. "You really aren't going back to school."

"No, we're not," Ron replied.

Mrs Weasley stared long and hard at the table mapping the saga of her large family. "You know I always wanted you _all_ to have a good education."

"Molly," Mr. Weasley tried to interrupt with an heir of futility.

"Fred and George didn't finish their NEWTs, but they were prepared – they knew where they were going. I understand, Harry dear," she said, smiling benevolently at the boy who had become her seventh son. "I know what you need to do. But Ronald … you're a prefect!" she finished, unable to otherwise express herself.

"Mum, I know you want the best for me, but I need to act for the greater good. Harry needs me. Right?" Ron looked to Harry for confirmation.

"All the help I can get."

"I'll be fine, Mum."

"But you can help from Hogwarts, Ron—"

"That's enough, Molly," Mr. Weasley said more firmly. "Ron must decide his own fate." He stood and walked to his youngest son, laying a hand on his shoulder. "We'll be here when you come home, or if you need us. Know that. And that you have our love."

Harry stroked Hedwig's warm, smooth feathers, and looked away as father and son embraced.

Harry walked the familiar twists and turns of the labyrinth-like school. The stone halls and granite floors had seemed to glitter when he first stepped across the threshold, a wide-eyed first year. Now the corridors were empty and dust hung in the late summer air. His footsteps seemed too loud, stabbing at the comfortable silence that had settled into Hogwarts' every nook and cranny.

Eventually he came to the crouched stone gargoyle that guarded the entrance to Professor Dumbledore's office.

No. Professor McGonagall's office.

"Tartan," he said, feeling awkward. He missed the predictable sugary passwords. The Scottish theme didn't seem to suit nearly so well.

The gargoyle shifted to one side, revealing the large stone archway behind. Harry walked through into the familiar hall. Looking around him, he saw that nothing had changed. It was the same bare room it had always been, but for the revolving spiral staircase that led up to Dumbledore's main office. He walked forwards onto the first step, holding onto the banister as it took him slowly up to the main office.

Harry stepped off the staircase again as he reached the top and stood on the landing, looking uncertainly at the large oak door before him. The silence around him hung thick in the air, unbroken by murmurs, whispers or voices of any kind. He took another step forwards and lifted the brass knocker. As he released it, a loud boom echoed throughout the small space and almost made Harry jump.

The door swung open of its own accord. Frowning, Harry stepped through the doorway and into the office. Portraits of past Hogwarts headmasters and mistresses snored softly, their snorts and sleep-addled mutterings relieving the quiet that made him uncomfortable. Harry glanced around the room, wondering who had opened the door. His gaze fell instinctively on the painting that hung directly opposite him, at the head of the room. Dumbledore slept quietly, without the twitches or drooping mouth of some of his colleagues. His half-moon glasses had slipped from one ear and drooped across his face. The deeply lined, parchment pale face looked peaceful, as it had back in Harry's first year.

Harry walked over to the chair in front of the huge desk and sat down, purposely turned away from that familiar face. He leant on the desk, steepling his fingers before his eyes, and watched the doors.

Something on the desk, however, caught his eye. It was bare but for a large, stone basin filled with a strange silvery white mist. Harry had seen it before, of course. It was Professor Dumbledore's penseive.

He did not mean to, but something compelled Harry to lean over the desk, gaze into the strange, swirling strands of thought. The gossamer threads whirled, the occasional face or image floating to the surface, just to be swept away again. He thought he saw … but then it was gone. Harry drew his wand and poked the surface, stilling the flashing images. The surface became glassy, reflecting the streaming sunlight into Harry's eyes. Dumbledore shone through the light, and Harry lowered his face into the penseive.

The air rushed past Harry as he tumbled head over heels through a torch-lit chamber, yet somehow landed neatly on his feet. It was the old trial room where, two years ago, he had waited with a lead stomach for Cornelius Fudge's verdict on his continuing education at Hogwarts. Now the chamber was filled with people, solemn and silent. Some he recognized: Mad-Eye Moody sat to his right, and to his left sat Mr. Crouch in a raised seat. In front of him sat Professors McGonagall, Sprout and Flitwick. Harry frowned – he had seen penseive memories of the post-war trials before, but had never noticed his professors attending them.

Footsteps echoed through the silence and people shifted restlessly as a small black door opened on the opposite side of the chamber. Three figures stepped into the arena-like floor space. A man in shoddy black robes with dark hair and sallow skin flanked by two Dementors, their scaly grey hands hooked about his elbows. The Dementors led him to the familiar, strangely horrifying chair with gold chains, bewitched to hold captive anyone who sat in it. The gold chains wove their way up the man's arms and he raised his head slowly to look up at Mr. Crouch. Harry's throat constricted and he swallowed down the bile that quickly rose at the sight of Professor Snape's face.

The hatred making Harry's head thrum was alleviated very slightly by the fact Snape looked awful. The man's face was drawn and bloodless, with heavy dark circles under his eyes. His lank hair contrasted drastically to his too-pale skin, and his usually glittering black eyes were strangely dull. Harry could for the first time see what it did to a man who had committed true crimes to be surrounded by Dementors, and it gave him a thrill of black satisfaction.

"Severus Snape, you have been called before this council under suspicion of being a Death Eater, for charges of severe harm to Muggles and the illegal use of the unforgivable curses. Do you understand the charges?" Barty Crouch's voice rang out in the large chamber but every eye in the room was focused on Snape.

"Yes." His voice sounded dead. It matched his corpse-like appearance.

"I understand you have someone to vouch for you?"

"Yes," he croaked feebly. Harry smirked as the greasy head was lowered, the curtain of hair too stringy to hide Snape's grimace as he swallowed. "Dumbledore. Albus Dumbledore."

Hushed mumbles and mutterings filled the room as Professor Dumbledore – young, smiling, alive—rose from his seat at the front of the courtroom and walked towards Snape's chair.

"Waste of time, if you ask me," growled Mad-Eye from beside him. "A Death Eater if ever I saw one – had it in him since he was a boy."

Professor McGonagall turned in her seat, looking pale, her thin mouth drawn into an angry line. "No one has asked you, Alastor, and to be frank I'm sure we would all appreciate it if you kept your opinions to yourself." Mad-Eye only growled into his hip flask, glaring at Professor McGonagall.

Mr Crouch called, unnecessarily, for silence. "Professor Dumbledore. Please present your case for the defendant."

Dumbledore looked grave but nodded, laying a reassuring hand on Snape's shoulder that made Harry shudder. Snape flinched away from the touch and closed his eyes, as though sharing Harry's sentiments. "You have before you sir, a full account written by myself and a confirmation written by Minerva McGonagall, of Severus' dealings with Lord Voldemort." People around the room gasped, as though terrified the name would invoke the man. "And of his aid to our side during the last year or so," Dumbledore continued. "For those of you who do not have this report, let me briefly outline its contents.

"Severus Snape was, indeed, a Death Eater. The evidence is branded plain enough on his left arm. For the past year however, Severus has been relaying information to myself on Voldemort's plans and whereabouts, at great personal risk to himself. He has saved lives, where it has been possible, both directly and indirectly. Furthermore, since he has been taken into custody, Severus has supplied the ministry with a list of Death Eaters and their whereabouts – I believe most of them have since been apprehended."

"Yes, yes, very good Dumbledore," said Mr Crouch, his eyes scanning a large roll of parchment in his lap. "The fact still remains that this man was a Death Eater, and committed crimes in Voldemort's name."

Harry watched a look of restrained anger pass over Dumbledore's features, and it made his heart ache, to watch the headmaster so fiercely defend his killer. "So, indeed, was Lucius Malfoy but that did not stop you re-admitting him into the wizarding world." The words were spoken in a quiet, dangerous voice and Harry noted a slight shuffling half way down the benches on the right wall. He looked at the people there and saw the white-blonde hair of a young Lucius Malfoy, who was staring very hard at the opposite wall.

"If I may speak, Albus? Mr Crouch?" Snape's deadened voice spoke into the soft murmurs.

Dumbledore nodded his ascent, and Crouch said, "You may speak."

Snape stared unseeingly at the wall as he spoke. "I was a Death Eater. My reasons are inexcusable and, I suspect, irrelevant to this court. There is something, however, you must understand about my position. As a Death Eater I saw things that you – none of you—can even imagine. I watched my friends – people I trusted – commit rape, torture, murder the innocent." Harry's hands gripped the bench until the knuckles turned white. "Those memories haunt me, and will continue to haunt me every day of my life. They are a torture far worse than anything the Dementors can come up with. I do not deserve to be released..."

"Then stay there! Stay there and rot!" Harry shouted. No one turned scandalized eyes on him. Snape only hung his head, silent and passive. Dumbledore frowned sympathetically, like a grandfather nursing a favourite child through chicken pox.

"I do not deserve to be released from Azkaban," Snape continued softly, "but I can serve no penance there either. I am no use to anybody. Allow me back into the world, and I may yet make amends for my actions."

Dumbledore nodded once to Crouch, then sat back down in his place. Crouch sighed heavily and rose from his seat. "As with all Death Eater cases, your appeal verdict will be decided by a jury selected from the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. The verdict will be delivered at midday on Thursday. Until that time you will be returned to Azkaban."

Crouch nodded to the two Dementors. They released Snape from the chair, taking him back through the small black door.

The scene shifted completely. Harry was no longer in the courtroom but in a long corridor of stone walls and iron bars. He could hear wailing and screaming all around him, as though it were coming from the walls. He quickly realised where he was. Harry shivered, knowing he must be in Azkaban.

Soft footsteps could just be heard above the bone-chilling wails. Harry looked behind him to see Dumbledore walking towards him, lead by another Dementor. He pushed himself against the bars behind him to avoid touching the flowing black shroud as it walked past, before following the pair to a cell near the end of the corridor. The Dementor unlocked the barred door and stepped back to allow Dumbledore through. Harry followed quickly behind him, not wanting to miss whatever would be said.

"We tried, Severus. Now all we can do is wait for the verdict."

Snape sat on a straw-filled mattress with dirty grey and moth-eaten blankets. He had removed his robes, and sat now in a mud- and blood-stained shirt and black trousers, his greasy head cradled in his hands.

"I know, Albus. Thank you for your help but I think we know what the outcome will be."

"Severus, you are a good friend of mine – one of my trusted. I will not allow you to wallow in self-pity, to waste away in this hellhole when there are better purposes to your life. You said it yourself: rotting here you are no use to anybody. But in the world you may serve your penance."

"It's a hopeless case, Albus…"

"Now that I will not hear! They let Lucius Malfoy out. If it's a matter of guilty or innocent they will certainly release you."

Snape raised his head slowly and looked Dumbledore in the eye. His lips twitched in something that may, on closer inspection, have been a smile. Harry's stomach twisted along with Snape's lips. "I will never be able to thank you enough for what you have done for me, Albus."

"Some thanks," Harry snorted to himself.

"Nonsense, dear boy. I am sure I will think of something suitably torturous for you to do for me."

"Harry?" A hand slid onto his shoulder. He turned slowly, guiltily.

Professor McGonagall's mouth was tight, but her voice was more worried than angry. "You have pre-empted me, Harry."

"You wanted me to see this?"

"No, not exactly," she admitted. The slimy walls around them faded away to a white swirling mist, teeming with ghostly shapes and faces. "These must be the events that were forefront in Albus' mind, before he…" she swallowed. "They keep appearing. I don't know how to stop them until the penseive becomes more accustomed to me." The tall lady looked around at the mist fondly, as it grew darker and began to take form.

It took them, slowly, like a lifting fog, out into Hogwarts' grounds. They stood by Hagrid's hut. The day was bright and warm, the trees and grass around them a lush green.

"This is what I wanted you to see."

Professor Dumbledore walked towards them from the lake. He lifted his face to the sun and smiled as its rays warmed his pale, slightly freckled skin. "A beautiful day, isn't it?"

"Albus, don't be so trivial." Snape walked behind him. He seemed anxious to catch up, to walk beside Dumbledore, although the old man walked at a leisurely pace. "What, in the name of Beelzebub's bollocks, is the meaning of this?"

He waved a strip of golden ribbon at the headmaster, who ignored it but frowned. "Tsk, Severus. The children."

"The children are all busy conspiring to blow up the school, their fragile ears will not be sullied by my uncensored wrath."

Dumbledore just chuckled.

"This is no laughing matter. You won't avoid me, Albus."

The old man sighed. "Very well." He stopped and turned, resigned. "What is it?"

"What the hell is the meaning of this message? 'The vow has no loophole, stop, be prepared for the worst, stop, try to save dragon, full stop.'"

"I think it speaks for itself," Dumbledore said softly.

"Without consultation? You think you can just order me into something like this like – like I'm just to fetch some potion ingredients? A negligent flick of the wand, it'll all be sorted. It doesn't work that way, Albus."

"Dear boy," the head master said urgently. "I understand you're upset, but kindly lower-"

"You ask too much, sir!" Snape said loudly. Harry thought he saw a large shadow slip further behind Hagrid's hut. "I won't do it! You can't ask me to!"

"Severus, please." Dumbledore brushed his healthy hand against the other man's pale cheek, smiled softly. "I am dead. It's already happened. You know that, better than anyone. Please, Severus. You must be strong."

Snape shook his head. Harry was not close enough to hear, but he saw the words shape his thin lips. "I can't … I can't do it."

"But you will." Dumbledore breathed in deeply, glancing at the place where Hagrid's great shadow had fallen, staining the grass grey. "Let us return to the castle. We will talk further there."

"Whose memory was this?" Harry asked as he watched the two tall men walk side by side across the grass. "Snape's? Did he give it to you? Because you can change your memories, and Snape's memories and stuff are really controlled-"

"It was already in the penseive. I suspected Severus' interference, somehow, but Hagrid's memory confirmed it. You saw the shadow, I suppose?"

Harry nodded, swallowing his impotent anger. "He told me about this. He heard them arguing, but he only heard part of it. He didn't know the rest."

"It was there – indistinct, but enough to make me sure this is a true memory, whoever left it."

Professor McGonagall gripped Harry's shoulders once again, lifting him cleanly into the dim light of the office. Harry sat heavily, palms pressed to his eyes.

"I thought you should know," she said softly. "It might not change much, but … I feel it will be important."


	2. Sleep Departed From Mine Eyes

_**Sleep Departed From Mine Eyes**_

_Genesis 31:40_

**_November 23rd, 2000_**

Harry jolted awake. He blinked, staring straight ahead to get his bearings. He had been in the middle of a very strange, very real dream. As his mind tried to print it on his memory, the images slipped and melted away. It left him with a heavy led feeling in the pit of his stomach and a strange grogginess, like waking up in an unrecognized place. Frowning, Harry reached out towards the bedside table, groping for his glasses, before placing them on his nose and blinking everything into focus.

The young man willed away the lingering sense wrongness. As a teenager, he had never put much stock into Divination. Dreams that meant something were clear and precise, with people you knew and usually bad things happening. They had corridors with locked doors or green light or graveyards. All this left was a tune that played over and over in Harry's mind, but he was sure he'd never heard it before.

He distracted himself by looking around his small, untidy room in the London apartment he had bought two months ago. Most things were still in boxes, or spilling out of draws, the rest lay splayed out across any available flat surface. There was no one to make him tidy up, or to care that it was messy, and Harry was still reveling in that feeling. He made sure the kitchen and living room, anywhere Hermione might look when visiting, were habitable – but his bedroom was just for him.

Harry let out his breath in a long puff of air and swung his legs over the side of the bed. Getting up he reached for his dressing gown, shrugging it on as he walked out of the room towards the tiny kitchen in search of caffeine.

It was a long and winding road that had finally brought Harry to owning his Edgware flat. With Lord Voldemort dead and incinerated two and a half years previous, and a triplicate inheritance from his parents, his Godfather and his mentor, Albus Dumbledore, Harry was one of the wealthiest bachelors in the wizarding world. He had briefly considered buying a mansion and a lamborghini, but Hermione had very quickly squashed this idea.

"What you need is an occupation. Something to do – anything, really," she told him over the Weasley breakfast table. Harry had lived with the family for several months after the final battle.

"He's fine, Hermione. Harry can spend his own money."

"With plans like that? He'll turn out like his cousin. Or worse, like Malfoy!"

That had been enough for Harry to seriously consider her words. Find a job? Fine.

As if by magic, a fat and highly obsequious letter from the Ministry of Magic: Auror Department landed on the Weasleys' doorstep. It had seemed a grand idea at fifteen, before he had seen enough curses – experienced enough curses – to make the idea of another day of hurling hexes seem a day too long.

He spent a week or so looking through the job pages that came with the Weasleys' Daily Prophet, not seeing anything much that took his fancy. Then one morning, as though it were another person controlling him, Harry asked, "Mr. Weasley? What else is in the Department of Mysteries?"

"You know better than me, Harry. I've never been down there."

Harry shrugged and nodded. The brains, the time room, the veil, the prophecies. None of that interested Harry. There was no point thinking about it any more.

But he did think about it. It lodged itself in his head and refused to go away, like a song that you didn't like very much but still found yourself humming for weeks after you've heard it. Eventually he wrote to the Ministry of Magic, asking for details on job vacancies in the Department of Mysteries and the qualifications that would be required.

Unspeakables seemed to be slightly more specialist – or slightly less easy to please. His answer was six months at Hogwarts to complete his education. He took twice as many NEWT classes as anybody else so he could take his exams early, the idea of a particular brand of Unspeakable motivating him to a level of excellence his younger self would never have believed. One O, four E's and an A later, Harry found himself once again walking down the long corridor into the department of mysteries, and knowing exactly which door to choose.

The same feeling of certainty had drawn him to his flat, on the top floor of a large Victorian house just off the Edgware Road. Living in Muggle London was never cheap, but that wasn't exactly something Harry had to worry about. It was light and airy and his. That was all that mattered.

Harry's electric kettle clicked off as the water boiled and Harry poured the steaming liquid into his cup. Stirring it slowly, he looked out the window as the winter sun rose over London, diffused softly, almost prettily, through the smog. He saw a small tawny owl flutter over the rows of endless rooftops and chimneys towards his window. He dropped the teaspoon the counter and leant forward to open the window.

The small owl flew in and landed on the kitchen work surface. Harry hunted around for a few minutes for some coins, before depositing them in the leather pouch tied to the owl's leg. In return, the owl left a rolled up broadsheet newspaper on the counter beside Harry's coffee. Harry ignored the delivery owl as it hopped back onto the windowsill and took off once more. He poured milk and two heaped sugars into his coffee, and dropped the teaspoon into his cup to magically stir itself while he flattened out the Daily Prophet. Harry dimly noted a Dementor's hooded head float across the center of the paper, denoting a new Death Eater arrest. Still bleary eyed, he sipped at his coffee before turning his attention to the headline.

The mug smashed on the floor. Harry swore loudly, jumping back from the steaming coffee that soaked the bottoms of his pajamas. He rushed away to change, his sleepy Sunday suddenly looking a lot busier.

The newspaper lay forgotten on the counter, pages curling at the edges but too heavy to spring back into a roll. The headline, beginning to fold, was big enough that it could still be clearly read: '_Hogwarts Professor on Trial for Death Eater Atrocities_'.

"Harry, please. Try to calm down…" Hermione puffed as she doubled her pace to keep up with her old school friend.

"Calm down? Calm down? Those _morons_ have gone and arrested the man who saved my life, who fought his arse off beside both of us in the final battle. No, Hermione, I will not _calm down_." Harry's pace didn't falter as they swept through the familiar corridors of Hogwarts towards the Headmistress' office.

"You really are annoyingly like him, you know!" Hermione reached out and grabbed his arm, spinning him to face her. "Just stop for a moment, alright? You're no use to anyone in this state."

Harry glared at Hermione, now Professor Granger, but she held his gaze until he looked away, down at the floor. "Fine. Sorry," he mumbled and started off again at a slower pace. "But really, Hermione, it's ridiculous. They'll be arresting Ron next."

"Well it's not quite the same thing, is it? Severus did kill Dumbledore. There are extenuating circumstances, but not everyone knows about that. I mean, it's still murder. I'm surprised they took so long, to be frank. You can't honestly say you thought there were going to be no questions asked?"

"Well, maybe not, but chucking him straight into Azkaban? It's as though they've already decided."

"They haven't decided anything, Potter." The two friends stopped and turned, looking the way they had just come. Professor McGonagall was walking briskly to catch them up, her black teaching robes billowing around her. A deep frown wrinkled her forehead and her face was pale and angry. "I had a feeling you might come. Well, better come upstairs then, both of you." Without stopping, she led the way in silence to the stone gargoyle sentinel and spiral staircase to the head's office.

Harry had seldom had cause to visit the headmistress' office when he returned as a student to Hogwarts, but whenever he had it was the small changes that surprised him most. Professor McGonagall had brought a sense of order to the large circular room that had finally come to overrule Dumbledore's more chaotic stamp on the place. Her desk generally held a tray of shortbread rather than sherbet lemons or licorice allsorts; the large chair behind her desk hid its years of ware beneath the McGonagall family tartan. As ever, Harry's eyes went immediately to the newest portrait, and he was mildly comforted by the sight of Dumbledore's oddly solemn face and twinkling blue eyes.

Professor McGonagall gestured for them both to sit. "Cup of tea?" she asked, conjuring a large red teapot from thin air.

Harry didn't answer. He dropped Hermione's copy of the morning's Daily Prophet onto the desk with a loud slap. He had left his flat before actually reading the article, but ever prepared, Hermione had been ready to hand him her copy of the paper to glance over.

"You've read that, I suppose?" Harry asked. The question was fairly pointless, but he felt it should be asked anyway.

"Briefly, yes." She looked awkward for a moment. "I knew before the newspapers, of course."

Harry leaned forwards over the desk to quote part of the article. "'Teachers and Governors alike were shocked yesterday evening when Professor Severus Snape was taken into the custody of the Dementors of Azkaban. Professor Snape has been Potions Master and Head of House at Hogwarts for nineteen years, excluding a one-year "sabbatical", and was at the school at the time of his arrest. He is charged with being an active Death Eater during You-Know-Who's Second Coming and illegal use of the Unforgivable curses. Professor Snape is not a newcomer to Azkaban, having been imprisoned there during the trial period after You-Know-Who's first downfall under similar charges. However, he was acquitted after testimony for his actions, given by Professor Albus Dumbledore _(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf Warlock, Supreme Mugwump, Golden Phoenix for death in line of duty)_. Dumbledore's tragic death, however, is one item on the long list of charges facing Professor Snape, raising the question of whether the Potions Master will be vouched for again.' And so on, and so forth. They don't really think we'll just sit back and let him rot, do they?"

"I think they're hopeful, yes." Professor McGonagall folded her arms primly and her mouth hardened into a sharp line. "There's more though, Potter."

Harry slouched back into his seat. "What more could there possibly be?"

"They _could_ sentence him to death," Hermione said quietly. She looked slowly up at her friend and colleague's matching scowls. "Sorry. Just trying to be helpful."

"The Ministry seems determined to see Severus has a 'fair trial'. They have changed normal proceedings in his honour. Only an objective party may plead for the defendant – no colleagues, no family members."

"They don't want a biased defence. How's that for perverse?" Hermione managed somehow to look bemused and angry at the same time.

"Perverse or not, it is the way things must be done. I cannot speak on his behalf, and neither can you, Professor Granger. Severus has very few friends left to speak of, and no one with any credibility in the Ministry's eyes."

"Remus?" Hermione asked hopefully.

Professor McGonagall shook her head. "The trial is decided by a jury. A werewolf defence council will hinder him more than help."

"One of the Weasleys, maybe?"

"I'm not entirely certain they've forgiven him yet. I could speak to Arthur, but I wouldn't lay any bets on him."

"You won't need to," Harry spoke up, suddenly animated.

Professor McGonagall's eyebrows raised slightly but she didn't seem surprised. "Go on."

"I'll do it," Harry said, as though the answer was obvious. "I'm in the perfect position – good reputation in the Ministry, access to all the past case files, I can get over to Azkaban without any raised eyebrows. Most of the Wizengamot will lick my hand if I offer it!"

"But you don't know the first thing about legal cases, Harry!" Hermione half laughed and shook her head. The very thought of it was ridiculous.

Harry's smile was a cross between sweet and evil. "Which is why you're going to help me, Hermione – the ministry need never know."

"I can't, it's ridiculous," Hermione said in a shrill voice. She crossed her arms, trying not to look at the pleading expression she knew must be on Harry's face. She was surprised when instead she heard him chuckle. "What?" she demanded.

"Just the thought of you _not_ interfering," He chuckled.

Hermione had had two years of teaching to perfect the icy glower she used on Harry. Alas, he had known her too long and seen her in too many embarrassing situations for it to be truly effective. "Oh, come on, Hermione. You might as well give in now."

"He's quite right, Professor Granger," Professor McGonagall added, a bemused expression on her face.

"But Headmistress," Hermione tried to protest.

"It won't do you any good," Harry grinned, enjoying himself. "Resistance is futile. You might as well be a willing accomplice."

Hermione thought briefly about arguing the point further, but she knew already that Harry was right.

Much later, long after the sun had sunk beneath the stark mountains beyond Hogwart's West Tower, Hermione candlelight illuminated the tower's highest window. Hermione resolutely worked on, regardless of the time of day. She had put aside the lesson plans and text books that governed her teaching work and moved on to The Daily Prophet's 'Published Accounts of Death Eater Trials, 1977'. They weren't the most thrilling read in the world – although the budding talent of Rita Skeeter tried its best to colour some otherwise bland foregone conclusions – but, as Hermione regularly reminded herself, it was in a good cause. Severus' trial was actually one of the more interesting accounts. Many believed his would be a life sentence in Azkaban simply because he had not claimed to act under the Imperius curse. His inherent charm and public reputation had certainly done nothing to help win his freedom. It was Dumbledore's position and persuasion that had worked wonders.

She sighed and closed the well-thumbed paperback, moving toward the window. The lake was still and black like a giant pool of spilled ink. The mountains were only shadows across the dark indigo sky. Hermione's eyes stung from the strain of reading in the flickering, dim candlelight, and the cool dark soothed them.

"Time for bed, Zebedee," she said softly to herself, as though afraid of waking the castle that slept around her.

When Hermione crawled between the cool, crisp sheets of her bed and closed her eyes, she saw the face of her colleague – former colleague – stamped on the dark red of her eyelids. It had been strange at first, learning to work with a man she had once feared, to try and think of herself as his equal. It had, in fact, been one of the hardest things. She wouldn't say he had made it particularly easy for her -- he'd certainly never given her a fatherly smile or asked her round for a nightcap and a game of chess or anything. But she remembered clearly the first time, when berating a student for dueling in the halls, that he had referred to her as 'Professor Granger'. He said it naturally, as though the words passed his lips every day (as they may, indeed, have done). There was no sneer, no snide look. Only simplicity, and it had surprised her. Without even realizing it, she had underestimated him.

Prejudice was always something she herself had had to battle against in the wizarding world, as a Muggle-born witch. Despite this, or because of it, she had always thought herself fairly objective. More so, at least, than Harry and Ron.

Now Harry was rushing to defend a man he'd always hated (hadn't he?) And Hermione had unfairly judged someone who had shown her respect (hadn't he?)

Before darkness overtook and Hermione succumbed to sleep's seduction, she couldn't help thinking how topsy-turvy everything had become.

_Not like when we were at Hogwarts…_

On the other side of the castle, the circular tower room was dark. Moonlight streamed through the windows, pooling on the threadbare carpet. It shone on the pale-skinned, silver-haired headmasters and mistresses, who snored lightly, slept soundly. Only one illuminated figure sat erect in his chair, gazing down at the current headmistress of Hogwarts.

"I still don't understand, Albus," Minerva McGonagall said, for perhaps the third time. She drew a hand across her eyes, trying to rub the tiredness from them.

"I don't suppose you do. But you might, in time. As long as it is done, that's what matters."

Professor McGonagall nodded absently. "You know, I had hoped that your death would at least mean no more cryptic orders."

"Death wouldn't stop my compulsion to interfere. You should know that better than anybody."

"Poor Severus," she said solemnly. "He hates interference, yet you seem to plague him the most."

"I'm like a cat. I'm happiest where I'm least wanted," Dumbledore replied, a satisfied smile on his face.

"I'm going to bed. I've a lot of work to do now I'm headmistress." She glared at the painted picture of her old friend, as though the blame fell solely on his shoulder.

"It was never a problem in my day," he said placatingly.

"That's because I used to do most of it for you."

"Well, yes, that would certainly explain it." He smiled brightly. "Off to bed, then. I shall plot quietly to myself."

Professor McGonagall said her goodnights, and slipped silently up the staircase to her rooms above the office. The old man in the portrait watched her go, no more than a dark shadow in the silvery moonlight. Were he a person he might have felt a swelling of his heart, a lump in his throat, a lead balloon in his stomach. She was, aside from his brother and Alastor, the oldest and dearest of his friends. He had seen the longing look she gave him – his painted self – as though wishing he would step out and help, as he always had in the past.

But the portrait Dumbledore could not feel. He could only watch, with eyes that twinkled periwinkle blue mischief down on all who saw him, and conjure memories for the living that helped them live that little bit better.


	3. Much Learning Doth Make Thee Mad

_**Much Learning Doth Make Thee Mad**_

_Acts 26:24_

**_December 22nd, 1998_**

Harry's footsteps echoed in the chill December air that somehow seeped into Hogwarts without warming. Usually there was the breath of life that a school full of students brought – the bustling, yelling, laughing warmth of people. But all the kids had gone home for Christmas, leaving the faithful and few who had no where else to go. Harry himself would normally be with the Weasleys, enjoying a large family Christmas, but his chosen coursework assignment meant a little extra effort. He would still be able to join them from Christmas Eve.

It was nice, in a funny way, to be in Hogwarts without all the children. When he was one he'd never noticed how loud and clumsy they were. Being a mature student had its advantages – a private room being about top of the list – but being part of a class of seventeen year olds could be strange to say the least. He was pleased that most of the teachers made time to see him privately, or allowed him to work in their rooms during free periods on his various projects.

Lit torches in brackets along the walls did little to warm the more stagnant air of the basement. But something _was_ different to the rest of the castle, to the way the space normally was. There was something in the air.

As he came closer to the dungeon level, Harry could make out a tune that grew stronger as he came closer to the Potions classroom: the heavy crescendos and warbling voices of Muggle classical music.

Harry put his head around the potions room door, where the volume of the soprano's notes was almost painful. There were no speakers, no sound system, no obvious source to the music. But the room held one occupant, his head bowed so that a curtain of black hair concealed his face. He lent over a work book, scribbling in the margin or striking words out every so often. His head nodded to the music, engrossed.

"Professor?" Harry asked, knocking softly on the door jamb.

Snape took his time, writing a final, long comment at the bottom of the essay before circling the awarded grade. He looked up, black eyes noting Harry without surprise, and lethargically tapped his wand on a small silver box that sat on the desk before him. The volume decreased steadily until it was more ambient than all-consuming.

"It's on the bench at the back. I can't promise yesterday's third years didn't sully it in their exuberance for the festive season."

Harry walked to the back bench, nodding at his teacher's words. A soft, lilac mist shimmered over the green potion's surface. That wasn't good. He took a battered copy of Moste Potente Potions from the school supply stacked at one end of the bench and flicked through to the anti-swelling balm he had been attempting to brew up.

"Bugger!"

"Profanity in the classroom, Potter?"

Harry blushed. He thought he had said it softly, but apparently not. He turned to look over his shoulder. Snape was still engrossed in his pile of marking. "Wrong colour mist and it smells too acidic."

The sallow face lifted once more. "Mauve mist?" Snape asked.

"Lilac."

"Don't be pedantic, Potter," he snapped. "They were working with cider vinegar yesterday," he bent his head once more.

Harry frowned and consulted the book once more. "Cider vinegar's good with sore throats, disinfection lesions, drawing out infection," he muttered to himself, staring at the potions book as a means of focus. "Bit strong, I suppose, but I could use some soda ash. That'd neutralize the acid, not a catalyst to anything." He turned to ask over his shoulder, "Soda ash?"

"End cupboard," came the response. "Thank you for figuring it out yourself."

"Had to," Harry said, bending to pick out the correct jar. "You're not allowed to help me."

"This has to be done by New Year's Day and I'm leaving tomorrow. You would have had to start from scratch when you didn't do anything wrong. I may be a monster but I have _some_ ethics."

His scar creased when he frowned, studiously pouring the jar's contents into the potion, while stirring with the other hand. "You're not a monster," he said with some disapproval. That was what the tabloids had called him, the words of Rita Skeeter and sundry other Prophet writers. That Snape would pick up the term concerned him. "Is this Mozart?" Harry asked to change the subject.

"From The Magic Flute. The Queen of the Night Aria."

Harry nodded slowly. "It's pretty."

"It's a Goddess trying to persuade her daughter to kill her father."

Harry paused his stirring momentarily. "Oh. So not pretty, then." He bent to blow out the flame beneath his cauldron.

Snape sighed and closed the last of the workbooks, dropping it onto the pile and flicking his wand to send them to their designated shelf. "Not to your way of thinking, no." He tapped the silver box once more, and the track changed to another piece of classical music.

Harry smiled. "Ode to Joy, Beethoven's ninth symphony." He put down his ladle, turning to lean against the bench. His professor leant back in his chair, hands folded on his stomach. He regarded Harry with cool eyes and a quirked eyebrow. "They play it sometimes on the last night of the proms," Harry explained. "Uncle Vernon used to think it made him look intelligent to drink Brandy and watch the proms on TV."

"When everyone knows the intelligent drink Guinness."

The younger man laughed out loud, the elder merely smirking and training his eyes on the desk before him. "And why not? Full of iron, very good for you. Especially nursing mothers, strangely enough."

"Someone's been raiding the library for the medical examination," he stated simply.

"What can I say? I've been overtaken by the joys of learning." Harry smiled and met his Professor's black eyes, which were staring at him intently. The corners of his lips had curled ever so slightly, a small smile slowly creeping onto his face. Harry's face was growing flushed. He had never just _talked_ to Snape for this long before. I was really kind of nice. "Is it weird?"

"What?" Snape asked.

"Having an adult in your class -- teaching someone who should know all this."

"The education system used to be different, when I started teaching. There was an element of higher education, rather than just apprenticeships to various professions. We would teach during the day, as we do now, but in the evenings there would be further education tutorials or one-on-one meetings with adult students to discuss their progress. It was a better way of teaching: the graduates wanted to learn and did most of their study at home or in the library."

Harry nodded. He could see the similarities. Although he attended some classes – pre-arranged with his teachers – he spent most of his time in the library, or working on practical assignments in his own time. "Did you do that?" he asked, out of curiosity.

Snape nodded slowly.

"I can see that. I mean, you seem the academic type. And when you were a kid…" Harry trailed off. He did not like to mention the Snape he had seen in the pensieve, not only because it tended to cause pyrotechnics from his teacher, but also because it forced on him an image of his father with which he had never been comfortable.

Although his eyes dropped away from Harry, and he was sure his jaw tightened for a moment, there was none of the usual anger the met the recollection of Harry's stolen glance at Snape's past. "I once told Slughorn I would be content to never leave this school. I think I cursed myself that day."

Harry shifted from foot to foot. The conversation was becoming worryingly introspective, and with the fire gone behind him the cold was beginning to seep into his robes.

As though having the same thought, Snape rose from his chair and collected up a notebook and the now-silent silver box from his desk. "If you're finished…?"

"Will it be OK there?" Harry asked, pushing away from the counter and walking to join Snape by the door.

"Best that it cools in here. I will move it to my rooms before I leave tomorrow. It should be set by then."

Harry smiled at him. When they stood close Snape could still tower over him, but with a very little distance Harry could look into his eyes without having to lift his head. "Thanks and … well … Merry Christmas."

"Yes," Snape replied in a non-committal way, opening the door for Harry.

Harry walked away slowly, listening to the sounds of Snape warding his classroom door, and then turning and walking back down the corridor. He looked over his shoulder once. Snape was flicking through his notebook as he walked, head bent, but still taking long strides with feet that had walked these corridors for many years and knew their own way well. He imagined the long pale fingers flipping pages, a frown of concentration and impatience, sharp black eyes scanning the words rapidly, searching unfalteringly. He wondered what Snape was reading, what page he was looking for.

Then Snape turned a corner and was gone. Harry paused to listen, but he could not hear Snape's footsteps, either.


End file.
